On the eve before the Fellowship's departure from Imladris, Legolas is approached by Arwen. Aragorn has pulled away from her, and she feels Legolas is the only one she can turn too to keep Aragorn safe. Chapter Seven Up!

"Paused in
shadow," her voice spoke of progress, in low timbers as it held
the attentions of siblings of great bearing. Several more leaves of
golden hues fluttered in through the open window and spiraled down
around her dark brow. They settled one by one with lazy distress upon
the mirror's water. "Darkness and indecision." She closed
her eyes, pressing back tears of frustration. "I cannot see any
further."

The elder Elven brother
touched his sister's shoulder, infusing her with strength imbued of
the Valar. "Arwen, can the Prince not hear you?"

"Nay," she
swallowed and turned her luminous sapphire gaze upon Elladan, whose
own gray eyes reflected her very heart's worth. "Nor can I hear
him. I sense only fear and distress. Mithrandir does not know the way
through, and thus they have stymied their ascent upon a three fold
doorway."

Elrohir sighed from his
position on his sister's bed. The three had retreated to Arwen's
rooms after attending a light and silent supper with their father,
Elrond. It seemed to his daughter that the great Lord's own thoughts
centered around personal dismay though she suspected in her heart he
worried for his adopted son.

As did they all.

"This is
unbearable," the youngest of the twins' voice was wrecked with
worry. He twisted and lay flat upon his back, his arms splayed out at
his sides. "We should have gone with them."

"Pointless
chatter," Elladan said in a much silence whisper. "Trouble
not your heart. Instead think of Estel, and of the Hobbits. Pray to
the Valar that Mithrandir remembers the path. To tarry in such a
place" he shivered and looked back to the mirror. "Arwen,
can you not speak to him as you told us?"

She shook her head.
"Only when he is listening. There is a dread, a terrible
melancholy upon his heart, and I do not know its just cause."
Indeed, she had sensed the perilous cloak as it moved over her
friend's soul. There is something amiss, something the Prince
keeps to himself. If he will not listen, I can not warn him.

"Unbearable,"
Elrohir muttered once again from his position.

"Perhaps you
should keep yourself busy, dear brother," Elladan said in a
quiet voice. "Father's library is extensive and I am sure there
such creatures beneath Moria that even you and I have never seen in
all our days upon Arda."

Arwen looked to the
eldest twin. "What horrors do you suspect, Elladan?"

He turned a serious
gaze upon his sister. "Legends as old as the Silmarils. Tales
told by Glorfindel and our father by the light of an evening fire,
when the wine ran full and memories long locked away came forward in
heroic retellings."

Elrohir sat abrupt,
upright with eyes wide. "Ai, I remember those tales, and thought
of them as such. The remakings of more mundane happenings with silver
tresses, dressed up to seem more adventurous."

"Nay, brother,"
Elladan shook his head with gravity. "Though Dwathderrow
is—was—a mine to the Dwarven peoples, it was before then merely a
covering to the lands where the followers of Melkor slept, within the
lands of Morgoth."

A delicate hand came to
Arwen's lips as her eyes widened and brimmed with tears. "No
Elladan, you can't mean the slaves of the Dark Lord dwell there."

"Really you think
the Dwarven Kingdom of Moria was destroyed by Goblin and Orc might
alone? Nay, dear sister. There was foul work abroad, and I fear in my
soul that Mithrandir knew the fate of Balin and his kin before ever
entering that dark place." Elladan bowed his head gracefully. "I
believe it is why he did not wish to go into the mines, and I believe
it is why," he looked to Arwen below his furrowed brow,
"Sauroman has herded them into the bowels of the earth, to let a
beast of shadow and flame destroy that which he cannot."

Tears of anguish filled
Arwen's eyes as she cast her gaze back to the mirror. Look to me,
my prince. Please hear me in the dark and take from me my strength.
She sniffed as Elrohir stood beside her, his hand resting briefly
upon her shoulder before the younger twin departed from her room.
Beware the shadows.

-----------

The tombed silence of
Moria was broken occasionally by the slight, harried comments of
Hobbits ill fed. A cadence had come of it, nearing like a song of
impatience and despair. For Pippin would complain in one voice of
hunger and starvation, as Merry would deliver a resounding shush in
another voice. Once in a while the rhythm was broken by the grunt of
a dwarf, who sat nearby upon the rock smoking a pipe as he watched
the Elf, watching the shadows

Estel sat upon the edge
of the three-door precipice, a pipe clutched in his own hand, the
buzz of the weed giving little solace to his growing fears of
trepidation. He did not like it when the Istari paused, nor did he
feel confidence flourish with the wizard's mutterings to himself.
Gandalf smoked his own pipe as he sat perched upon a jutting rock,
facing the three doors.

It sounds as if he's
scolding himself for his aging memory. Estel suffered himself a
small smile. Perhaps he is.

He watched mutely and
puffed upon his own Elven weed as Frodo approached the wizened Istari
and the two spoke in low voices. Estel heard the echo of the name of
Golem, and even he could not shut out an inward shiver of distaste.

Golem.

The slippery creature
was near. Estel paused with this thought. Yes, he was near enough
that Legolas should have said something or made mention of the
creature's Oliphant step. Yet come to speak of it—where is my
dearest of friends?

Estel turned around,
twisted from his left to his right. Legolas had stood only a rock's
throw moments earlier, his soft Elven glow a beacon within the
Dwarven mines.

With a glance at each
of the company—of Borimir entranced in his telling of a Gondor tale
to Merry and Pippin—and then to—Ai…where is Gimli? Estel
tapped the pipe on a local stone, easy the heated weed did not ignite
his dry and brittle clothing, and then moved cautiously a few steps
away from the flat ledge where the Company of Nine paused in their
journey.

A rock bounced nearby
as Gimli stepped hastily around a mound of sharp and high rock. His
axe was balanced over his shoulder, and his step was even and
sure—for this is the realm of the Dwarfs.

"Aragorn,"
the Dwarf said in a soft if not gruff voice. "There you are. You
must speak sense into the insensible."

Estel pursed his lips
and stopped a smile. The statement seemed meant for humor, yet the
Dwarf's expression did not. "Why you say this, Master Gimli?"

"Because that
pointy-eared friend of a Ranger sits away from us behind that rock.
He will not look at me, and he will not open his eyes."

The ranger took a jolt
from such a proclamation. "His eyes are closed?" This did
not bode well—for the Elvish race did not close their eyes save
when they were gravely ill.

Or dead.

"Aragorn,"
the dwarf's expression moved quickly from aggravation to worry.
"Ai…this is bad?"

Taking some comfort in
Legolas' speech and a little humor from the dwarf's ire, Estel bade
Gimli to return to the Company near the three doors and he would look
after the elf.

And indeed, just around
the high rocky wall sat Legolas. His bow lay at his side, an arrow
cast off in a less than armed position of rest upon the stony floor.
The Elf's light seemed dimmed, somehow, and yet it illuminated the
darkness enough for Estel to see him.

"Old friend,"
he said gently as he knelt down beside Legolas.

The Elf's eyes were
indeed closed. The vision frightened Estel and he reached a dirtied
and nervous hand out to touch the knee of his oldest friend.
"Mellón?"

Legolas eyes came open
fast and he fixed his bright, uncanny eyes on Estel. The ranger
noticed the pupils were large and black, darkening the elf's blue
color. "What—Estel." He frowned, grooves of displeasure
marring perfect unblemished skin between his dark brows. "Has
Mithrandir chosen a path?"

Estel moved away and
looked around the wall's edge. Everyone remained where they had been,
with the Istari still speaking quietly with Frodo. Gimli had joined
the tales woven by Boromir and the Hobbits appeared to be quite
entranced.

"No, dear friend,"
Estel felt his own brow furrow. "Why were your eyes closed? Are
you ill? Is it this place?" He wanted to reach out again, to
touch his friend. Years ago they had traveled inside of this very
mountain and then the elf had suffered a great melancholy, locked
away from the sun and the trees. Had that same illness returned?

"They were
closed?" Legolas' voice became soft. Distant. He looked away,
showing his friend only a profile. "I will work harder not to
sleep, Estel. It was only a moment of folly."

"Folly does not
mark the Elvish eye to close, Legolas." Estel hoped to put a bit
of warning in his voice. He would not be pushed aside again and again
when something troubled his closet friend. His brother. "You are
tired. Weakened once again?"

Legolas' head came up
and he turned a fierce gaze upon Estel. "I am not weak. I am
only—troubled."

"You sense
something. Danger? Or perhaps you sense the battle that robbed this
place of life and laughter?" He looked around at the hidden
ceiling and at the ground around them, littered with bones and rocks.
It was not a fit place for a First Born to dwell. "Speak to me,
Legolas. I am your friend—a brother you have rescued many times
more than deserved." He gave a half smile. "There are more
than the mountain's woes in your eyes."

And for a brief
instance Estel believed his friend would speak. He would share his
burden and take him into his confidence again. Legolas' dark pupils
burned through him, and the crease between his brows mended.

For an instant.

The elf straightened,
and the hard set to his jaw returned. "I am only slightly
injured by the feel of this place. It will not hinder my duty to
protect this Company."

There was something
else. An unspoken piece to the puzzle that Estel waited for him to
say. But when it did not come, remaining a widening gap between them,
the ranger nodded and moved back. "Aye, Legolas. I will deal
with what you say—only remember—the protection of this company
does not rely upon your shoulders alone. Carrying such a burden inside
will only dim that Elven light."

And with that Estel
stood. He was angry—with Legolas for turning away from him—and
with himself because he couldn't touch his old friend. Not the way he
had before. Long ago before the Rangers. Before the escape of Golem.
When two friends, an elf and a man, walked side by side in the
forests of Mirkwood.

"Ah…this way,"
Gandalf said at last.

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